


a Chaisteal àrd aige

by leusignac (Golbez)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 100 years ago, Backstory, Gen, Headcanon, Norvrandt Counterparts, Pre-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Self-Indulgent, Worldbuilding, counterparts of both canon and original characters are in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-01-26 14:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golbez/pseuds/leusignac
Summary: Before the fall of Voeburt, before the Sin Eaters came, before the Flood of Light, Laxan Loft fell.A theater troupe escapes from Lakeland, making for Voeburt, where curious fates await them and the elven orphan who has stowed away in one of their carts.Aenc Thon's tale set in ages past, told in two acts.
Relationships: Charibert de Leusignac & Vaindreau de Rouchemande
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me before ShB: I really hope they don't do the alternate thing.  
ShB: does the alternate thing  
Me now: ok fine what if Aenc Thon was Charibert in the past because they have the same VA
> 
> Welcome to a very self-indulgent fic where I put in counterparts of my favorite minor characters...also I've written and planned a big chunk of this already so 5.1's revelations about Ward alternates and Lakeland aren't going to stop me. But well, here we go, off to a short first chapter.

  
  


**ACT ONE: OUT OF LAXAN LOFT**

  


Vaunses is the one who finds the child. 

He stands over the crate of fabric with the lid still in his hands, blinking in disbelief at the scrawny elven boy curled up on the linen curtains. The boy’s chest rises and falls with the steady rhythm of slumber, but when Vaunses hastily sets down the lid and reaches down to shake him, the boy does not rouse.

It is a blur, the way he calls for others in the troupe, the rush of aid to his side. He lifts the boy out of the crate—still sleeping—but the child is whisked away. Vaunses will remember little of this day, of the whirling of activity as the troupe settles into their makeshift camp while the boy slumbers on in someone’s tent. He sits with the troupe that night, he’s sure of it, their somber faces lit by the cackling fire they huddled around, the weight of Laxan Loft’s fall silencing the normally cheerful group.

He will remember little of the drink and the rare, whispered conversation they pass around, in the years to come. What he will remember is the pity and fear that struck him when he gazed upon the sandy-haired child.

***

“Must be Laxan.”

“Snuck onto the carts in the chaos, I’d wager.”

“D’you see the clothes on him? Seemed like a street brat.”

“What do you think Master Adric makes of him?”

“Seemed displeased to me...”

Curse these elven ears, thinks Vaunses as he cuts through the last of the logs for firewood, thankful for the splitting noise that drowns out the last of the Galdjent women’s gossip. He pauses to gaze over the rest of the camp with its colorful tents. Men and women milled about, hard at work and tightlipped unlike the pair chatting quietly near him. Vaunses knows a handful have chosen to stay in their cots this morning, opting to grieve alone over the members of the troupe that had not escaped Laxan Loft with them.

His gaze lifts from the tents to the castle looming in the distance. The proud spires beckon to them.

“Gather round, my Apples!” 

At the center of camp, a Drahn man clad in an untucked golden suit has stepped forward, arms outstretched with a flourish. The morning sun keeps his skin an ashlike color, red hair falling over his black horns haphazardly. Vaunses returns his axe to its stand, then follows the trickle of troupe members forming a half-circle around the man known as the illustrious Master Adric.

“Such unhappy faces,” starts Adric, shaking his head as he looks around him. “Now now, that won’t do! It...is certainly a difficult time for us all, but we must keep looking forward. Are we not the troupe of miracles? We’ve been through plenty worse than this!”

Vaunses bites back a snort, though the wave of discomfort through the crowd tells him he is not the only one who thinks Adric’s speech is not quite appropriate to the situation. The man must have spent the entire night preparing to cheer them up, judging by his dishevelment. Poorly chosen words aside, Vaunses cannot fault the man for trying.

Movement catches his eye, at the entrance to one of the tents. One of the grieving, come to see what the commotion is, and Vaunses is about to turn back to Adric when he realizes the figure slipping out is too small, too slight, to be any member of the troupe.

***

The crowd is of little interest to Shariel. A quick glance at them tells him they are preoccupied by the loud man at their center, so he is free to scan the camp, picking out boxes and large equipment unfamiliar to him that he can dash behind. He isn’t sure where he’ll go, but he knows he can’t stay in any one place too long...

He crouches, and gets ready to run.

Strong hands catch him before he can even move, lifting him up by the arms. He cries out and kicks at his captor, but the man’s grip is firm and he does not react, not even when the loud man stops talking and the crowd turns to look at him.

“Easy, boy, you’ll hurt yourself thrashing about like that,” comes the gruff voice of his captor. Perhaps it is the truth of his words, or the growing realization he isn’t escaping this way, but Shariel goes still and glares up at the man holding him. Gray eyes stare back down at him with a ferocious intensity. His captor has a face lined with age, framed by an impressive mane of dark hair, and, to his surprise, the pointed ears of a fellow elf.

“Well done, Vaunses! I’ve not seen you move so fast in years!” The crowd is shuffling about, letting the loud man through.

Shariel feels himself being lowered, back to the ground. His bare feet touch the dirt, but Vaunses does not let go of him. He settles for glaring at anyone who dares look to him.

“Pay better attention then, Adric,” answers Vaunses, as the loud man arrives and immediately stoops to examine Shariel. “Some of us no longer have the luxury to spend time writing in ledgers rather than chopping logs.”

For reasons Shariel can’t discern, the loud man—Adric—looks chastised for a moment, though it’s quickly washed away as he focuses on Shariel. A gloved hand grasps him by the cheeks, turning his face this way and that, and Shariel decides he dislikes this man.

“Our little tag-along awakens.” Adric releases him, and steps back. His expression is difficult to read. “What is your name, child? And why is it my master workman found you in a crate of my most expensive curtains?”

He glares back defiantly, but does not answer. The silence stretches, and stretches. He hears Vaunses sigh, and it’s not much longer before Adric sighs as well.

“Very well then,” says Adric, shaking his head, disappointment washing over his scale-ridden face. “We cannot bring someone who’ll not even answer simple questions. Let him free, Vaunses.”

Hands lift off him, and Shariel blinks. The crowd is a rush of activity suddenly, as Adric strides back into the group, barking orders.

“Pack up, Apples! We make for Voeburt city!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i uh  
forgot i posted ch1 already  
hi

Vaunses is in the middle of securing crates in the first of the troupe's roofed carts when the boy appears again, popping out from behind the pile he had yet to load. He does not startle, does not call out for someone else this time. He only looks down at the boy with a raised brow and an expectant look.

The boy blinks, as though he'd been expecting a greater reaction. When one isn't forthcoming, he pouts and finally speaks.

"Shariel," he squeaks out. "...My name."

Vaunses nods and introduces himself in return. The boy shuffles closer, then points to the boxes in the cart.

"You're the one who moves them? All of them?" he asks.

"Aye," he answers, striding over to the pile by the boy. He eyes the child, noting how ready Shariel looks to just run off. Vaunses pauses, a twinge of _something_ in his heart bringing forward decades of training. He squashes it for now. "I should've known something was amiss when the curtains were a slight bit heavier."

Shariel does not speak for a moment, not while Vaunses lifts the first box off the pile and starts toward the cart. His back is turned to the boy when a soft voice calls out, "My mother left me there. She told me to be quiet no matter what..."

A chill races down Vaunses' spine as memories of the night before come unbidden. A woman with pale, sandy hair like the boy's, laying in a bloodied heap at the end of the street, begging for mercy as he and the troupe rushed past to their waiting carts. The crate of curtains lying unloaded and Adric yelling for the rescue of the expensive fabric despite the screams of terror and bloodshet in the distance getting closer and closer. The muffled noise he thought he'd heard, as he shouldered the weight and jumped with great effort, from ground to cart. The crying of the amaro as Adric had taken the reins himself.

Their lightning fast escape on cobbled streets. The bodies they'd passed. The narrow misses of archers from the walls.

If he'd stopped to help the woman up—if he'd left the crate behind instead—

He whirls around to face Shariel.

"What have you heard of last night's events?" he asks.

"No one's wanted to answer my questions," answers Shariel, shaking his head.

Vaunses considers him. The thin fabric of his shirt gives away his origins. The lands around the Source, the great lake and wellspring of all life in Norvrandt, were generally warm enough this time of year. "You're Lakish?"

"Laxan born." Shariel's tone becomes less guarded as he answers questions, though Vaunses cannot even begin to guess why. The boy stares at the pile of boxes again, his brow furrowing. "But my mother and I traveled around Lakeland to find work."

"Where do you want to go from here?" asks Vaunses quickly, changing the subject. No doubt the boy is thinking of his mother, and Vaunses would not wish such distress on him. He is well familiar with how dwelling on such things affect the mind, particularly that of a child so young.

Shariel pauses, as though he has not truly given it much thought. When he finally answers, he does not look Vaunses in the eyes. "Well, there must still be people in Lakeland. I think I'll go back and find work again. Maybe I'll even find my mother."

"Ah, no one's really told you then..." Vaunses sighs. He has been a bearer of foul news many times in his long life, but it seems almost cruel to say the truth in this instance. Yet, he's certain the boy will find out anyway, whether it is from someone on the road back to Lakeland or from whatever unfortunate fate awaited him. "Lakeland is unsafe. Last night's events are such, child—the Laxan king is dead, and elven factions have decided to kill everyone who isn't an elf."

"_I'm_ an elf, and so are you," points out Shariel. He frowns, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. "But I bet it's awful there if they're killing everyone..."

"I've no doubt," replies Vaunses, thinking of the trials and executions that typically follow such upheavals in society. Humes, in particular, tended to be killed en masse...he allows himself a brief distraction of a memory, of red hair and rounded ears and a distant smile giving way to a scream.

Shariel pulls him back to the present by turning and reaching for a box.

"Then I'll stay here," he says, bending and starting to take hold of the first box. "I'll earn my keep, like my mother taught me."

"Stop." Vaunses is quick to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder and earning him a sharp look of fear and a tensing of shoulders. He continues quickly. "Those are too heavy for you. I'll not have you crushed as your first task. There—" He points over to the front of the cart, where the troupe's two amaro patiently wait as their hume handler tends to them. "—go and see what Karing needs aid with."

Tension leaves Shariel's shoulders, the fear on his face morphing into eagerness. He nods, and slips out of Vaunses' already loose hold before scampering over to the amaro.

Vaunses watches him for a moment as he speaks with Karing, who turns from the feed she had been preparing to address him, before returning to his own work of preparing the troupe for travel.

***

Voeburt's low walls rise out of the uneven landscape, its castle sitting just above the horizon. Shariel sits with Vaunses at the back of their second cart, taking up the rear of their caravan. The bright colors of the troupe's flags stand out against the deep green hills, and Master Adric leads them along the well-traveled road on his personal chocobo, a curious creature that Shariel had taken an immediate liking to.

The boy, at present, is leaning out the side of their cart, jaw slack as his white eyes gaze toward Voeburt.

"Careful that you don't fall out and find yourself trampled," warns Vaunses, watching him twist his body to try and catch sight of something in the distance.

Shariel immediately slides back down into his seat, pouting as he turns to Vaunses. "I've never been to Voeburt before though. I want to see all of it."

"You'll be seeing plenty of it soon," he replies, "That mess in Lakeland won't be clearing up quick. Just our luck the only roads between Voeburt and anywhere south and east are now controlled by angry elves, eh? We'll be here for a while."

Shariel falls silent, looking morose. He glances out the side at the passing hills, but does not try to lean out again. The hour passes in silence between them, the only noise the occasional chatter from other members of the troupe further along the caravan drifting down to them on a wind that turns cooler as they approach the city.

Then the cart comes to a stop with a creak.

***

Adric gazes at the guard with indignation. "The king _knows_ me."

"And that's probably why his orders specified that your little caravan's forbidden from passing through these gates," replies the guard, a fellow Drahn in well cut armor.

"So no one passes through? Is that it?" demands Adric.

The guard pauses, regarding Adric with a raised brow before his gaze travels to the troupe stopped in the middle of the road. Voeburt's proud gate stands behind him, while soldiers patrol atop the walls on either side of it. Adric has already taken note of the patrols' timing, based upon the moving shadows just visible to him at this angle.

"We're still taking refugees from Lakeland," says the guard finally.

"And pray tell where you think my troupe came through from?" Adric is not one to let his temper flare so often, but he cannot help himself when faced with the stubbornness of this guard.

The guard shifts with his spear in hand, clearly uncomfortable. "The king's orders were clear about your...troupe."

Adric stills as realization sets in. He looks up from the guard, to the arching gate above them both. He opens his mouth a moment, intending to speak, but shuts it instead as a growing pit formed from this betrayal settles into his gut.

He really should not be surprised, he supposes.

Adric turns back to his chocobo without another word, mulling over his next course of action.


End file.
